The Doctor crumples at the edge of the pulpit, his right hand straining down to reach. He is holding Kenny by pure thought, but he will tire eventually.
His left thumb is clicking the bud on the Rose Ring back and forth. Back and forth. So frantically.
A scream rakes his throat again. His sinew rebels, the stria beginning to pluck away inside him like fiddle string from the largest point closest to the Eye; his stomach. Inside his head, he tears his senses away from it and reaches down and strains again. Jewels of cold sweat mingle with the blood from the wound in his side, making little opal droplets that pull away even as they freeze, because the gravity well of lost Qqaba is ripping even the clothes from his back. And he’s not the only one still alive in the hall.
With what little psychic strength he can spare, he feeds the anchor he’s got on Kenny while he writhes on the pulpit floor. No dignity left.
He opens his mouth to speak, but a man is standing over him.
A man with black hair like death and blue eyes the color of a snowstorm at sea. When had he decided to…?