His curls spread out, a lace tablecloth before him.
He is melting.
His face floats in the tin-contained sea of hot metal.
The metal is bubbling, spewing up, leaping out of the pan as he slips away.
From his mouth, there dangles the comforting brown blunt of a long cigarillo.
The ash-bitten burnt end is still somewhat lit, judging by the sick stringy line of smoke cajoling it with wispy kisses.
As his ears slide under the silvery yellow melt, he smiles.
Rassilon should be retrieving his hearts’ desire, a lovely fragrant little baby-shaped brie, just… about…
His chin dips below the liquid, sizzling briefly.
Finally, finally, someone else… no, -everyone- will hear them.
Fluid fills his nostrils, flowing. Burning the little protein hairs on the ends of his nerves, the Torque-batter folds over, all the way up the yellow brick nodes of Ranvier and the Perrier of the axons to gently wash against the threshold of his once bright brain in a thick drizzle, a welcome rainfall. It will soon become a flood. Despite a luscious lack of tympanum now, still he hears the beads of liquid, knocking, knocking… and decides, again and then and once more, to let them in.
All those voiceless prayers.
He closes blue eyes on the world, pondering one last thought as the livid steam from his turning tears sweetens the dark of the Old Girl’s library room with the scent of cooling nut brittle.
Now they will be answered.