[Yeah, Qubit doesn't need to elaborate. Carlisle has lost enough people in his life to know the agony of it, the struggle of grieving. He never did learn how to cope with it properly; it was easier to focus on his work and those who needed his guidance than it was to guide himself through his troubles. Whenever he felt that intolerable loneliness eating at him, he would bury himself in his work or he would drink, putting off his grief as he settled into the denial that his uncles would return one day, and all would be well.]
I see.
[He glances back at the picture, at all those proud faces of Paradigm, and for a moment, he's back in his father's study, gazing up at the painting above the mantle of his father and his uncles. Though long gone, the burden of their absence never got easier to bear, the weight always that much heavier when he gazed upon that painting. What would they think of him now?]
And I suppose what happened to them cannot simply 'be fixed,' no matter how much you may wish it.
no subject
I see.
[He glances back at the picture, at all those proud faces of Paradigm, and for a moment, he's back in his father's study, gazing up at the painting above the mantle of his father and his uncles. Though long gone, the burden of their absence never got easier to bear, the weight always that much heavier when he gazed upon that painting. What would they think of him now?]
And I suppose what happened to them cannot simply 'be fixed,' no matter how much you may wish it.