The Rose Ring.
He knows it has caught the light and completed the circuit, because the ground is dancing suddenly beneath the ancient sea upon which the tiny dock is situated. The layers of dust claim the wind scratching up against the horizon, but his eyes are unfocused, shallow; another contraction will take him out completely, for the present. He shudders with the involuntary nature of the subject at hand, and, more than half-blinded by circumstances, clutches up the Ring again, fumbling it into his pocket. A bit of something comes off it... bits of something, crumbling. It must have been scorched; not a surprise, considering the horse’s arse his year has been.
“Best not to look a gift mount in the mouth then. I’ve got you both and will monitor through the night, sleep now. We’ll go directly to Boeshane in the morning; but only once you’re able to travel.” calls a deep and familiar voice that curries no argument.
A lovely blue hum fills his ears; he almost follows it down into the black, immediately. But...
That man... his timbre, that tone, it... hails through the pain-fog like a lighthouse beacon, and the Doctor smiles as he watches Kenny being taken by hover-litter through two beautiful blue doors by himself in a slightly taut grey suit, and him with Rassilon’s strength bearing his own shivering body up in the most delicate, the most incomprehensible of embraces.