Continuing quote from Manfred.
OoO
And on thy head I pour the vial
Which doth devote thee to this trial;
Nor to slumber, nor to die,
Shall be in thy destiny;
Though thy death shall still seem near
To thy wish, but as a fear;
Lo! the spell now works around thee,
And the clankless chain hath bound thee;
O'er thy heart and brain together
Hath the word been pass'd - now wither!
.
Seconds, minutes, or hours pass before he finally rises out of oblivion. His sense of time is utterly destroyed, he can't tell. He is just suddenly conscious, shivering on the hard surface like he's lying on ice.
Slowly, he gets up and looks around warily at the emptiness, expecting a sound, a movement, something to lash out at him from the shadows, out of nowhere.
An eternity seems to pass and nothing does. And he finally allows himself to collapse against a computer panel, pressing his feverish, pounding forehead on the blessedly cool metal.
Deep breath.
("Is something funny? Did I miss a funny thing?"
"Sorry. It just occurred to me. This is what I'm like when I'm alone.")
He rises, walks briskly to the console, and sets the coordinates for planet Karn.
.
"Do not go gentle into that good night." A small voice in the back of his head insists that he's only doing this to deliberately go against stuffy Time Lord traditions, not because he's easily bored and distracted. And that he also has very good reasons to be unable to think quietly or concentrate, no ADD nonsense. He ignores it.
Another chides him for being too much of a coward to say several goodbyes. That one is more difficult to ignore.
(But nobody can hide from a friend. Might as well; he's gotten quite good with the guitar. When do I not see you?)
"Now, you lot. I have been here all day, and it's been a great day!"
"You've been here for three weeks."
Impossible. Not even he could – really? For so long? How is he even able to think, to talk, to stand?
"Three weeks? It must be nearly bedtime."
(Hugging is indeed a great way to hide your face and he really needs to at the moment.)
.
Davros knows. Davros remembers.
"I don't have a screwdriver any more."
.
("When?"
Clara's expression is one of amused curiosity. He locks away the quite recent bad memories that spring up, and blinks, his face impassive.
"Well, when you're not looking.")
.
He knows he must look like death. How fitting.
The life support tubes rise up and oh, of course that's what he looks like now. The image of the screaming ten-year-old hovers persistently behind his eyelids.
"You came, then."
"Clearly."
"Did you suspect a trap?"
You may kill me, but you may never insult my intelligence. "I still do."
"Then why are you here?"
"Did you miss our conversations?" He throws a switch and there they are on a small wall screen, his past selves one after the other, drowning them in their overlapping cacophony.
And he would laugh if he could breathe, as he wanders around the room listening to their voices, because what's the point in all of this? Such a poor imitation of the foul wasteland in his head, of the chaos and horror of his nightmares.
Davros goes on about his sense of duty, his guilt and his shame. And he gets distracted because he has to speak, and he pushes the crippling exhaustion down, and never gets the chance to answer him.
Then why are you here?
So that I could sleep, Davros. So that I could sleep.
.
.
-the end-
Thank you for reading! Reviews are, as always, tremendously appreciated!