Pratt might not want to look at his hand, but Carlisle certainly does, and the moment he sees the raw, bleeding, peeling flesh, he stops, utterly frozen with indecision. He can't get near, he tells himself. But it should be fine now, shouldn't it? The aberration is no more, and while riled, he can feel he's in control of his energies—

No, he cannot risk it. He can't risk anything right now. Look what he did. Look what he's done. And worst of all, he did it to someone who trusted him, who should be his friend.

But he wasn't like this in that other world. He was alive. He wasn't yet a monster, a creature, the Blight Heir.

Carlisle tries to force his guilt aside, his entire frame shaking as he struggles to convince himself to do something, anything; he remains petrified, much like a child surrounded by delicate trinkets, warned to be careful so as not to break them. He has to help take them somewhere, to get help -- he can't stay here. He can't—

"Wh- what should I do?" he asks quietly, his voice grating as it escapes him, his eyes locked on Pratt, on his hand.