first_timelord: (not warm enough)
It had been seven days, now.

Rassilon had spent the last three of them unconscious, save for a few confused moments of semiawakeness. During those, it was enough of an achievement to get him focussed enough to drink something. He did so without a murmur of protest, despite the periods of hallucinatory thrashing he would sometimes experience on the cusp of such awakenings.

He was still cold, though the shivering had ceased as though he were simply too weary for it to continue. He still breathed, his hearts still beat. His face, however pale, was not grey. But an odd rash had started on his fingers, spreading up his hands, wrists, and forearms as this malady progressed. Odd, round, clear bumps. Where they grew over veins, the veins looked noticably dark. It didn't appear to cause him any pain, but that didn't worry Kiam any less, and though her medical knowledge was scant at best, she cared for it as best she could, wrapping his hands and arms with bandages. She began to despair for his life. Wondered if she shouldn't venture into this Nexus to seek help, any kind of help.

Then, on the evening of the seventh day, something changed.

She'd been sitting next to him, reading, letting the words run though her mind and around his, when the muffled miasma of dark, incomprehensibly shifting, sharp-wire-tendrilled energy started to fade, sucked away, pulling itself into curves and lines, spirals and circles. Its unspeakable sounds faded, replaced by the familiar perspectives of the infinite whirling gears of time. The red, horribly pulsing mind-lines cooled. Spread. Became green. Darkness became blinding light.

Kiam put the book down for a moment and leaned over, placing a soft kiss on Rassilon's forehead. Still too cool. But that will change. She pushed wild, thick locks of red hair from his forehead and his eyes flickered open for only a moment. They were green again, though the black had moved to the whites, now, as though receding.

"Welcome back," she whispered, her mind gently touching his.

He was too weary even for coherent thought, but she could feel his mind curl round hers, the way it was supposed to be again, before his eyes slipped shut and he fell into a dreamless sleep.
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first_timelord: (Default)

September 2012

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