Sep. 5th, 2007

first_timelord: (not warm enough)
It's been a few days, now, but it's felt like longer. He can almost feel it eating away at him, his strength waning the longer he has to keep this sheilding up to protect his own mind from the thin, sharp pulsing wires and tendrils of chaos as well as to protect everyone else from its drifting, seeping influence. Double-shielding. Psionics doesn't come easily, now.

He's gone cold, now, or maybe it's the rest of the world that's gone cold, inhospitable to this influence he carries that leaves him twitching, stomach full of black nausea and red lines in his head one moment; hyperaware and ravenously hungry another. It's always cold, though, now, no matter what else, and after a while he finds he can do nothing more than curl under blankets.

Every time he falls asleep, he tumbles into the Dreamlands, unable to control this aspect of his power. While he's there, Rassilon finds himself lost, and occasionally ends up chased by cats, swarmed by zoogs, reality-displaced, swept into rivers, or tumbled down hills. He doesn't wake up feeling rested at all, and often feeling even worse.

A thought comes to him, though, as he hides under the blankets in his home, now, that exposure to all of this barely controlled miasma of the Great Old Ones' influence must surely be why Omega turns out so immune to its various manifestations later.

His consciousness wavers in and out. Most of the time, he's barely aware of Kiam's presence as she stays by his side, tries to keep him warm, coaxes him to eat. He's simply too tired. He wonders how much longer this will last.

He finds himself apologising profusely. Kiam tells him there's nothing to apologise for. He can't remember half of what he's apologising for, but he's sure ... somewhere he must have done something wrong. Offended someone? Miscalibrated something? Mistook something for something else....?

"Been like this before," he mumbles, the present slipping. "Symbiotic nuclei... tests left me blood-poisoned for a ... fortnight...." His eyes flicker open for a moment, still depthless and black. They barely focus on Kiam. "Mmmm. What ... was I working on ... again?" His hand twitches toward her.

She rubs his hand between hers, her own warmth hopefully enough to combat the shivering cold that hasn't left him alone. A huge pile of blankets cover him, and she knows under those he's gotten worryingly thin. "The Station," she tells him. "And the Looms. Do you remember?"

"Nnnh. Looms. Progenitive cascades ... biogenic ... radiation...." his eyes slip shut again and he mumbles something she doesn't catch, lost to weariness and shifting memories. It isn't sleep his brain falls into now, but a sort of unconsciousness. A cold fever-state.

Kiam arranges the blankets around him a little better. There's nothing for it but to wait. Wait and hope he survives and listen to Omega's tiny, embryonic dreams.


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September 2012

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