calmbefore: (« all that has ever been home)
The (Eighth) Doctor ([personal profile] calmbefore) wrote in [community profile] bakerstreet 2014-07-23 10:05 pm (UTC)

He's there to catch her even as she falls, for all that she not aware of it. Nor of the fact that he bears her gently to one of the chairs sitting in the console room and very gently sets her in a position that should at be relatively comfortable to awaken to.

She misses, too, the way he turns on the TARDIS afterwards, speaking hurriedly and animatedly in a language that the TARDIS might well have not translated for Maribelle even if she'd been awake, and the way the doors close almost sheepishly afterwards. Things even seem to go a little more smoothly after that, as he pushes the old girl through the last of the interference.

(He lets her land where she will, after that, not caring quite so much in the aftermath of his latest companion having collapsed.)

For Maribelle, however, there are other things at hand. She may well have collapsed, but the Vortex isn't done with her, and instead of simply darkness she finds herself caught up in what it might be best to call a vision.

At first, there really is nothing. Just an empty darkness and then a sensation of movement. Not falling, no, but there's an anger coloring the darkness. One born of frustration and no small amount of annoyance. And the darkness blurs. Shifts into the maelstrom of colors that had been hat brief glimpse into the Vortex and then there's a laugh. One that's not hers and not the Doctor's either. No, the voice is someone else's.

Whose, that isn't clear, and in any case, that's about when the vision starts getting weird. First there's a cacophony of voices, metallic and harsh, and then the bars of cage. Only the cage becomes a box and then a snake.

Or maybe a man who's also snake, harsh-eyed and cold, and even without him speaking it's as if she can tellthis is the being who'd laughed at the very beginning. Either way, he doesn't speak. Just grins at her, in way that might very well send shivers down her spine.

(He's been too long in the Vortex to have much of a voice, not that it's anything that Maribelle would know.)

The grin fragments the vision into a thousand scattered images. Bits and piece of something that might mean something, all flitting by far too fast to pick out anything more than one in ten, if that. And above the dizzying maelstrom, a voice speaks up, in an accent that might mean something to the Doctor but likely doesn't to her.

Tell him this for me, it begins, and it seems to almost echo into her mind without stopping much at her ears. "Since then – 'tis centuries – and yet/feels shorter than the day."

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