lifetothefullest | [IC Inbox]

[Carlisle's eyes stay locked on his fingers, focusing on a tiny bit of ink he can still see trapped beneath one fingernail. It seems so minor, but it's not inconsequential to him -- neither is this matter, as Lance has surmised. It isn't just about his partner, as much as Carlisle might insist; even he realizes that denial is a defensive tactic. He never has been strong in matters of the heart.

Or strong at all, physically. He rubs at his chest.]

Why do you think I'm here, then?

[Well, he didn't react with anger, so there's that at least.]

I think there are two main reasons, other than your concern for your partner. One is your concern for the person you're talking about, whether or not you'd like to call them a friend.

[And he pauses briefly, because the second issue seems like a more personal one, and so Lance is slightly concerned about putting it so bluntly. But Carlisle asked, and addressing an issue directly is important, so--]

The other is the difficulty of accepting that you have a limited amount of time, which is stressful enough on its own, but dealing with someone you're close to so flagrantly gambling with their own life instead of appreciating it just makes everything worse.

Edited 2017-12-31 01:03 (UTC)

Oh.

[Oh indeed, as Lance hit both nails so thoroughly on their heads that they might be driven through the young clergyman and into the couch behind him, piercing his heart along the way. His brow knits tightly, his teeth grinding together as he struggles to maintain his composure.]

I'm sorry. Cisth, I'm sorry, I—

[Apologizing is apparently his default state. His voice quakes along with the rest of him, and he chooses to bury it along with himself: he pushes his glasses to his forehead as he presses his palm against his right eye, praying those are tears welling there rather than ink.]

I suppose that is why I'm here, isn't it? How does one convince another of their own mortality with what limited time we have? Some more limited than others! And surely she knows, but why would she continue to risk her life if she does? She's died once before. Did she not learn then?

Edited 2017-12-31 01:16 (UTC)

Carlisle, it's okay, just take a moment. We can go through your questions after a short break.

[Because right now, considering Carlisle's posture and the tone of his voice, it doesn't take a psychologist to know this is an emotional subject. Lance himself is in no rush--as much as Carlisle is concerned about wasting his time, it's not like Lance has anything better to be doing at the moment--and so it's well worth taking a break to give Carlisle a chance to calm down instead of causing him the additional stress of trying to keep his composure.]

I think I might have some tea... Somewhere...

[In a cabinet corner or something. He is the worst host at the moment.]

[If Lance is the worst host, Carlisle might be the worst guest: as he nods at the suggestion of tea, he places one hand at his forehead for support and hunches over, removing the one from his eye -- and in that moment, a drop of ink drips onto the couch between his legs. Now he's ruined the good doctor's couch and is burdening him with his affliction on top of his mortifying, emotional collapse. Fantastic.

Back to his eye his hand goes; he's on his feet in an instant, desperate to regain some semblance of control over himself so as not to cause a scene. He's already an embarrassment, he reminds himself, his mind turning on him. Perhaps his own nerves are driving him toward his demise faster than any of the frustration over Kate or dangers of the city.]

I need to use your restroom.

[It's difficult tell what it is that drips from Carlisle's eye, especially because ink is not exactly something that would come to Lance's mind, but he really doesn't care as far as the couch itself is concerned. He's just suddenly even more worried about Carlisle than he was before, but just nods in the correct direction at Carlisle's statement.]

Over there.

[He stands up as well, though he'll let Carlisle compose himself without further questions for now. As soon as he comes back, though, the waiting to ask about his condition is totally off.

But, at the moment, he goes to work on finding the tea and then getting the water heating up.]

[With the door closed behind him, Carlisle remains in the bathroom for several minutes. The first two are spent over the sink, washing out his eye until there's not a trace of blackness left in it, around it, or anywhere on his face. Though his eye and the entire area surrounding it are a little red by the time he's done -- he certainly looks as though he's been crying now, he groans to himself inwardly -- he considers that an improvement.

The next minute and a half is spent just breathing as the clergyman attempts to settle his nerves before they devour him from the inside out. It's not always an expenditure of energy that exacerbates his condition, he reminds himself, his stomach churning. So often, it is merely his own anxiety. That anxiety just riles itself, and before he knows it, he's struggling to even put together coherent thoughts. There's a reason he'd rather keep his distance when it comes to matters of the heart.

The last three and a half minutes are spent on frustrated hand-scrubbing, as Carlisle realizes belatedly that he still has a touch of ink dried under his nails; despite his attempt to calm himself only moments prior, he immediately becomes fixated on it and decides he can't leave the restroom until they are perfectly clean.

By the time he's achieved that, Carlisle realizes he's been in there an awkwardly long time and that he should vacate the room -- perhaps the premises, as well. No no no, Lance made him tea, he chides silently to his reflection. Or is making him tea. And this is a topic he really should learn how to talk about -- the part about Kate, that is. He has troubled enough people regarding his affliction. Glacius doesn't want to think about it. Neither does he, frankly, but given the state of his curse in comparison to when he first arrived...

He pulls in a deep breath, cycling it through him before looking at himself in the mirror. Eye is clean, but red; nails are unstained, even if his skin is a bit more chafed than it should be from the effort. Not perfect, but presentable. There's a hole in his sleeve from where he was picking at it -- fix it later. Smoothing his hair and straightening his sweater, Carlisle pulls the door open, making his way back into the den.]

My apologies, doctor. And I know you said I needn't apologize, but I didn't mean to lose my composure like that. I suppose I wasn't prepared to face what truth you have put into perspective for me just yet.

[And there's that feigned smile again, Lance, offered as he hesitates in sitting down, just in case he needs to leave. Needless to say, guile isn't Carlisle's specialty.]

[Aha, he knew he had tea somewhere; Lance locates a small box that contains a few mint tea bags and boils water collected from the pool outside Sorrow's temple, which he'd gathered once he found out it had no side effects. He doesn't have any sugar, or really any food at the moment, but at least he only promised tea.

He is concerned about how long it's taking Carlisle, but focuses on making the tea and by the time it's done steeping he hears Carlisle returning. He offers a small smile of his own--more genuine than Carlisle's, for sure--but then shakes his head a little and gestures for Carlisle to sit down.]

That's a completely normal part of working through an issue, whether in a professional counseling session or not. Expressing emotion, rather than repressing it, is part of the process and is a good thing, not something to be ashamed of.

[So again, basically, the point is that there's no need to apologize. And all of that said, he has to ask--]

Are you sure you're okay physically, though?

[Though he manages to maintain that smile as Lance gestures for him to sit down, he looks at the couch as though it might open up and swallow him whole if he should take a seat. His slate, glowing eyes land on that singular drop of ink, the knot in his brow tightening with worry and disgust at the sight.]

It's nothing.

[Leave, he tells himself. Just leave. Find a way to leave. Excuse yourself. Tell him you have suddenly and inexplicably remembered that you must feed the rabbit at this time of day, or he gets ornery. No wait, that wasn't even what the doctor asked—]

I- what I mean is that, ah. I'm fine now. Thank you.

[And then, too embarrassed to follow his own directions when he knows good and well that he's doing a poor job of feigning normalcy, he takes a seat anyway.]

[Lance picks up the two mugs and goes to sit on the couch as well, holding one out for Carlisle but making sure he has it--he's concerned about the previous trembling--before letting go entirely.

And although he hears what Carlisle says, and thinks that the use of 'now' might make the statement more or less truthful, he's not quite ready to give up on the topic just yet.]

You don't have to tell me, if you truly don't want to do so, but you're welcome to if you do.

[He just wants to make that clear, before they return to the previous topic.]

[Of course he doesn't want to. Why would he? Why would he ever want to remember just how awful his death is going to be, and how badly it's going to affect Glacius? At least he's considered that, Kate. He's thought time and time again that, perhaps, someone might actually miss him once he's gone, and it's not worth risking his very existence over just because some false gods claim they can bring him back from the dead, as they do so many others. It's necromancy, Kate. It's necromancy, and it's terrible, and he, of all people, would know that, and if only she would—

He drowns his thoughts in that drink. It's not alcohol, but it will have to do. Still, it only serves as a partial distraction from the torrent of concerns swirling in his mind, making a volatile concoction of melancholy and madness.

Talking would help clear his head, or at least keep him from worrying himself into a hole in the ground. It usually does.]

Over the past month or so, I've become aware that I am likely to die in this place.

[Lance is quiet, waiting for Carlisle to decide what he does or doesn't want to say without interruption, focusing on sipping at his own tea. Although he's been doing a lot better in the last few days, he's still having some mental and physical difficulty keeping anything down; the kind of stress he's been dealing with lately has been having a bad effect on him.

But one of those issues is similar, in a way, to what Carlisle is dealing with, so he has a great deal of empathy for what little he understands about the situation. What Carlisle says, though, is a bit surprising, because that's... An even more limited time than he expected.]

What makes you believe that?

[It isn't incredulous or questioning of the assessment; he just genuinely wants to know more about what's going on, so that he can better help.]

I have a condition. [That part isn't hard to admit; it rolls off his tongue as easily as his own name. The next isn't as easy, a holdover from the culture of the world in which he grew up.] A curse, really.

[And the last part is what he's still adjusting to.]

And an effect of it is an aural tear within me. I... only recently discovered it, as it is a fairly unusual anomaly even in my world- as unusual as being cursed in this way. I... I don't suppose you have those where you come from. Curses or aural tears or... um. Afflictions or the causes of such things.

[His expression hardens as he does his best to remain impassive despite the grim topic.]

I have known I was likely to die fairly young for some time now. People with this condition do not live long for many reasons. I expect that tear will be mine.

[Lance listens to all of that carefully, forgetting all about his tea while he does so, making note of everything Carlisle is saying even though he really doesn't understand much of it. There definitely aren't the sorts of things that he's mentioning back in Lance's world, at least not that he's aware of.

But the general idea is simple enough, and so is the end result. So Lance nods, to show he understands, before asking quietly--]

Has it been getting worse lately?

[He presumes so, considering all the other hints so far.]

Unfortunately.

[Carlisle stares down his tea before taking a drink. The steam, while it may open his sinuses a bit, does nothing to clear his head the way he'd hoped.]

Were it a curable condition, I'd have treated it by now, but... matters of individual energy and the soul are quite difficult, even for those experienced in them. I could have all the world's energy at my fingertips, and still, it would drain me until there is nothing left of myself.

[And in a way, he has that excess energy with Glacius' Mote. It allows him to keep healing, gives him the strength he needs when he finds himself weary; however, it can only do so much against the abyssal maw eating away at him from within.]

No one here can help?

[It sounds like Carlisle's already considered that possibility, but Lance can't in good conscience not ask him on the off chance he hasn't.]

I have yet to ask. Given the nature of the injury, I'm not sure I could trust someone with the task of repairing it even if they thought it possible. It would —[an uncomfortable sort of noise escapes from the back of his throat]— It would fall into the same purview as necromancy.

[And if the way he says that is any indication, he's not super fond of necromancy.]

Okay. I'd suggest that you look into the option, just to know what's possible, but I'm not going to tell you that you have to; it's your decision.

[And making that decision himself is important; if curing his condition is possible but goes against his morals--as it seems from that reaction that it might--it could end up not being worth it mentally and emotionally. There are, after all, a lot of reasons why people might refuse treatment for more mundane illnesses, let alone something like this.

And all of that established and said, the time is appropriate to offer something just as important as any advice might be.]

I'm sorry this is something you have to deal with. Issues like this are incredibly difficult, for a multitude of reasons, especially without support. Does anyone else know about this?

[Looking into it, he can do, granted he can figure out who he'd even approach about such information. There are other casters around, certainly, but from what he's seen, they all seem to be... fairly traditional. Evocationists and conjurers, at best. He has done his best to stay out of the affairs of others, be they healers, magicians, or even those without a lick of magic in their blood. Even if he does find someone, broaching the subject of such taboo magic is not something he's sure he can do in good faith.

Perhaps his goddess will answer him about this, he ponders inwardly with an outward sigh.]

I have tried to tell my partner, but... the topic isn't one that is easy to discuss. I don't think he wants to hear it, for fear he will lose heart in this place.

[That is... An answer that Lance has to carefully decide how he wants to respond to, because his initial reaction is not one that will be helpful. It's difficult to handle knowing that a loved one is terminally ill, but it's much harder for the person with the illness and therefore refusing to provide the kind of support needed is, as far as Lance is concerned, cowardly. But he's too empathetic to completely condemn whoever Carlisle's partner is, even though he's very unimpressed by that information and feels terrible for Carlisle in all of this.

So it takes several seconds before he figures out the right way to put this without making Carlisle feel a need to defend or justify his partner's emotions, while still giving the advice that is necessary.]

It's understandable that this is a difficult topic, for both of you. But is isn't something that will go away as long as it isn't talked about; it's still there, and I doubt you have the luxury of much time passing without thinking about.

[Lance knows he thinks about his own fate at home often, and he no longer even has any sort of reminders--like Carlisle's physical symptoms--to prompt those thoughts.]

As hard as it might be for your partner to accept, especially initially, talking about and facing this issue together is incredibly important. It will improve the quality of your life immensely to not be dealing with this alone, and the better you feel the more meaningful your time together can be.

He has so much he has to deal with already.

[Oh, it seems like Carlisle is going to justify how Glacius feels anyway, or maybe he's just telling himself that, as he has clearly done several times before. The excuses come so readily.]

He worries about me. He worries about her. He worries about everyone he would consider a friend, and how this place and its false gods affect them. He worries about his home, and what has happened to it in his absence, and if he'll ever see it again, or if we'll ever see it together. He wants to deal with the problems he left behind, and then come find me, should we be returned to our respective worlds, but what if he arrives and I'm already dead? Or should I wither here, what will happen? I've seen the depths of his despair when- when this friend of ours vanished the first time, and how will she respond if I'm the one who is gone?

[Well, so much for that composure. His hands are back to shaking; he realizes it and tries to calm down, but it's hard to hide how deeply bothered he is by all this.]

I- I know you're right, but it's... I don't know when the time is appropriate to bring up such sobering topics.

[None of those justifications are hugely surprising, because they're the sort of thing he not only would expect but has heard from others in similar situations, and even struggled with himself. Knowing that someone you love is has so much to deal with already, and not wanting to add to it, is a common and understandable concern.

But there are certain details in what Carlisle says that stand out more than the overall response, especially the part about his partner wanting to resolve other issues before going to find Carlisle, should they be separated. That stands out a red flag that Lance hopes is not exactly as it sounds, and he taps his own fingers against the mug of tea a few times in a small gesture of agitation, before he makes himself stop.]

An appropriate time would be whenever you are both home, without any pressing, immediate tasks or errands. Bring up needing to talk just like you did with me, and write yourself a script if it helps you get through saying everything you want to; it's sometimes easier to discuss an emotional topic if you can just read, rather than thinking too much about what you're saying as you say it.

[But all the practical advice aside--]

Everyone here has their worries, Carlisle, including yourself. You would want to know what was bothering him--no matter what is was--if you could help him by doing something as simple as listening, right? Part of love is being there for someone when needed, and you need him with you on this.

[A script. He can do a script. He writes all the time, so that shouldn't be a problem. He has pages and pages of things he's written, journals filled with drawings and musings. He can do that much, can't he?

He can try. That will be difficult enough.]

I have married a number of people, but... I cannot say I am all that familiar with matters of the heart. In my world, people with my affliction are not allowed romantic relationships. I have wondered as of late if this — if the fact that I am damning someone to watch me die — is the true reason why.

[His teeth grind, bared as he bites back his emotions once more. He can feel despair tightening his throat like a noose, welling in his eyes once more. When he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper, so quiet in case the wrong ears might be listening.]

Am I a monster to have condemned him to this? He would tell me no, but- [and here comes the ire again, daggers aimed at himself] but I knew I was not long for this existence, and yet I still pursued this. I allowed myself to think for even a moment that- that—

[So much for his composure -- whatever it is he had to say beyond that gets lost as he buries his face in his hand, his fingers pressing deeply into his skin as he tries not to spill his tea in his lap.]

Edited 2017-12-31 07:52 (UTC)

You haven't done anything wrong.

[Lance says it immediately, after Carlisle finishes, and although his voice is soft--he's struggling to control his own emotions, which is difficult when he sees someone so upset--his words are still very certain. He wishes he knew if it would be appropriate to put a hand on Carlisle's shoulder or something, but it's usually best to err on the side of no physical contact.

So instead, he tries to reassure him by addressing his fears specifically, instead of offering general statements that, although true, might sound hollow.]

I told you that I'm often involved in criminal investigations, usually involving someone who has died, and one of the first things we do is speak to their loved ones.

[And that part is, often, very difficult for everyone involved. It's hard to watch people find out they've lost someone, even for someone not as empathetic as Lance is.

But there's a very distinct point to this.]

None of them are ever regretful for the time they spent with the person they care about; they might wish it had been longer, but losing their loved one prematurely doesn't make the time they did have together suddenly not worth it. None of us are ever guaranteed any length of time, even in the best circumstances, and the whole point of life to experience and make the most of what we have. You aren't a monster, or selfish, or anything else; you're just making your time count, by living.

[Carlisle is quiet as he swallows down a lump in his throat, shuddering heavily as he wipes tears from one eye and watery ink from the other; though he's still struggling with physical and mental melancholy, he's listening, doing his best to believe what Lance says. Glacius has expressed similar sentiments on occasion, but when it's someone who doesn't know him, who isn't close and isn't biased, it somehow feels just a little more truthful. Perhaps it's because Carlisle is used to being that neutral party himself with his work in the church, or that he feels he can't trust his own mind at times.

But Lance is a doctor, and he has experience with such things. Though Carlisle is tempted to argue over the semantics of his situation versus those Lance knows... he also wants to hope. He wants so badly for this to work. He wants Glacius to understand as much as he wants his partner to live after his own, inexorable demise.]

Sorrow is, unfortunately, an inevitable part of this existence. [His voice feels small and insignificant, as he often does when anywhere but in Glacius' presence.] But... perhaps, through understanding, we can help mitigate its effects upon those we care for... and love.

[And that's more of an answer than he was able to come up with on his own. That particular L word holds such gravity for Carlisle, as though it might bring the world down around him when spoken -- given what he said earlier about the superstitions of the world in which he lived before Hadriel, he just might believe that.]

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