As much as he'd prefer not to admit it, she's right: he can't find what purpose he has, if any, by sequestering himself away as usual. He was lucky the first time, as the healers who pieced him back together after his failed Hunt had discovered his talent for healing -- he knew his purpose before he realized he was cursed, had it to fall back on whenever he felt like giving in to despair. His father died, his uncles vanished, and he was the failure of a dying bloodline, but he still had a use, a way to serve his goddess. People still needed him, and through his service, he could simultaneously bring pride to his lineage and make amends for continuing to exist when he should have died long ago.
He doesn't have any of that here. He doesn't have his bloodline, his people, or his healing. He's not sure if his goddess can still hear him, or if she'd even care in the slightest for a being who is now the antithesis of all he was taught -- all he was in life. There is a sickening, ravenous bitterness clawing at him all the time, feeding upon his guilt; he wants to assuage his conscience, but struggles to conceive how he could do any good to anyone anymore. Why not hide from it? Why not spare everyone his misery by finding a way to rid the world of himself?
Carlisle knows why -- he's afraid of what the end means. He had once feared the tattered remnants of his soul would be abandoned in the Land Beyond Living if he simply gave up. He now knows that his premature death brought much worse than that. What might another death bring? Will the Blight Heir rise a second time, against all odds? He doesn't know, and now that he has experienced an end worse than death, his uncertainty is more terrifying than it ever was in life.
He pulls in a deep breath, trying to calm himself before he rots another spot in the floor from his agitated nerves. "Tell me of it," he requests. "Unless you already have."
cw: suicidal ideation
He doesn't have any of that here. He doesn't have his bloodline, his people, or his healing. He's not sure if his goddess can still hear him, or if she'd even care in the slightest for a being who is now the antithesis of all he was taught -- all he was in life. There is a sickening, ravenous bitterness clawing at him all the time, feeding upon his guilt; he wants to assuage his conscience, but struggles to conceive how he could do any good to anyone anymore. Why not hide from it? Why not spare everyone his misery by finding a way to rid the world of himself?
Carlisle knows why -- he's afraid of what the end means. He had once feared the tattered remnants of his soul would be abandoned in the Land Beyond Living if he simply gave up. He now knows that his premature death brought much worse than that. What might another death bring? Will the Blight Heir rise a second time, against all odds? He doesn't know, and now that he has experienced an end worse than death, his uncertainty is more terrifying than it ever was in life.
He pulls in a deep breath, trying to calm himself before he rots another spot in the floor from his agitated nerves. "Tell me of it," he requests. "Unless you already have."