ubi dubium, ibi libertas

[madimpossibledreamer]

Reading about Looms for a later part and getting sidetracked reading about the Newblood houses and...yeah, that fits Blake extremely well, so him actually having a second heart before his first regeneration is more meaningful for the plot than just for survival. Yay for awesome coincidence.

Main Points:
Blake's 7 (probably series A/season 1, but otherwise ambiguously set) (A Question of Identity)
Chapter Summary: The man tries his best not to die (nor to let Avon die).
Word Count: 1212
Rating: Teen

         The Rebel wakes feeling considerably less foggy, taking stock. His chest is still sore, but the wound at his back is almost fully healed. And, fortunately, his vision has returned, for what little good it does him in a cave he can hardly remember entering. He’s still got several vague points in his memory—for one, he’d been forced into a ship to escape a war, but what war—but on the whole he’s far more, well, whole. He could name several Time Lords and Ladies who would find the whole situation humiliating, living among humans, meddling in their affairs—but while uncomfortable he doesn’t find himself regretting a single second of it. All life deserves the chance to live unruled by tyrants, petty or otherwise. So there hadn’t been too much difference, after all. A cheering thought, as you never know, when Chameleon Arches get involved—a pale imitation of regeneration, perhaps. Not that he’d know, not yet. And then the shiver reminds himself of something crucial. Avon had mentioned an ice planet, hadn’t he? If not for a Gallifreyan physiology The Rebel—Blake, he doesn’t mind using the name given to him by the Chameleon Arch—would be suffering quite badly. On the other hand, Avon must be on the verge of hypothermia, if not in it.
         For a moment, he panics at the utter lack of his sometimes savior—had Avon had been captured and they’d left him for dead—before he turns his head and there he is. At least he’s shivering, which means he hasn’t got the signal yet to stop, the point at which it gets really dangerous. “Avon.”
         No response, which won’t do. Shaking him does nothing. They’ll have to get somewhere the Liberator can actually read their signal. Carrying him will be a challenge, but he’s hardly going to abandon a friend down here, particularly when Avon had gone through the trouble to save him before. If they run into trouble, though, his hearts very well might not be able to take it. Even the reverse situation, him half-carrying an unconscious Avon, is already taxing enough. It’s dangerous to tempt fate by exposing themselves to these temperatures for too much longer, but it might be better to move quiet than quick. Though he might just be making excuses, given that he’s not sure he can move any faster.
         His guess had been accurate, as it happens, which also aids his mood considerably, despite the circumstances. From the sound of booted feet, they are in fact still being hunted. Always in the wrong direction, thankfully, but it’s an improbable situation growing yet more improbable by the minute. His breath is starting to come shorter, feel less effective.
         He can feel the strands of what-ifs and what-could-bes on the air. If they’re captured, even further if Avon dies here. Redundant, at best. He hadn’t needed a Time Lord’s senses to know that. And it’s not as if it works like a danger sense. That would be altogether too convenient, he thinks, expression wry.
         “Blake, we’re trying to find you.” Human Blake had never quite been comfortable with the feeling of Cally projecting into his mind, even as he’d acknowledged its use and the fact that, for her, it comes as easily as breathing. For him, it barely registers; he’s too busy trying to remember if he’s ever been told about her precise range to have a better chance of navigating tunnels of ice and rock that he’d been unconscious for on the way in. He’ll last long enough to hopefully make it to the Liberator, at which point some rest will likely be all he needs, but he’s starting to get rather worried about Avon, who remains unconscious. Still shivering, though, which is better than not.
         He can feel Cally accidentally project her confusion at getting a response for once, and—interesting, that’s right, she had mentioned that she could actually read a telepath’s mind. Handy.
         “Feel free to poke around a bit as long as you can multitask and keep moving. We’re both in need of medical attention and I’m not sure how much longer I can haul Avon around.” A Gallifreyan might have better endurance but there’s a limit, and between the shock to his circulatory system, the wound at his back, and the bitter cold there’s so much an improved constitution can help.
         “It shouldn’t be too much further,” Cally promises, encouraging. “It’s getting easier to hear you, and not just because you’re projecting your thoughts. Gan’s keeping their scouts occupied chasing him. He’s surprisingly quick on his feet.”
         The exhaustion is bone-deep, but through it he feels a warming glow of pride. They’re all very resourceful and clever people and he is honored to work alongside them. “All right. I’ll try to keep projecting so you can guide me, but I can’t promise I’ll stay coherent.”
         “Some might say that’s nothing new,” Cally responds. It’s remarks like this that make, say, Vila concerned she isn’t too fond of them, after all, but it’s not Cally’s fault that the rest of them aren’t telepathic and can’t see the rest of the context, just as valuable as body language in communicating for her people. She’s gently (fondly) mocking anyone who might say such things, as well as Blake himself.
         “Very funny, Cally.” He doesn’t hide the amusement very well behind the stern tone, but to be fair, he hadn’t meant to conceal it.
         “Just trying to keep your spirits high.” She’s speaking lightly to avoid thinking about her previous fear. And then, a little trace of homesickness prompts her next question. “What was your planet like?”
         “Warm. Not just physically temperate, but also to look at. I used to go walking through the woods in the morning, just to watch them turn fiery in the dawn.” He considers continuing, but realizes words are inadequate here, when images will do, so he shares them. No wonder he hadn’t realized something was missing, when sneaking outside the domed cities into the so-called wastelands beyond, defying prohibitions in the search of a greater cause, was nothing new.
         He’s in the midst of describing an ill-fated expedition he’d launched into the frozen mountains accompanied by several of his cousins prompted by absolutely nothing in particular when Cally hisses a warning. He flattens himself and Avon as best he can against the wall without question or hesitation. The guns discharging are, at least, familiar, though he doesn’t dare move, even at the sound of bodies falling, until Cally calls out mentally. “It’s all right now, Blake.”
         When he moves into view, he’s sure he must look a sight, but Cally is nothing but relieved. Vila’s relief looks rather like guilt.
         “We would’ve rescued you earlier, only...well, we thought you were dead.” Vila just sounds surprised, not concerned, but Blake doesn’t take that personally. It’s just his way.
         “I’ll survive, thanks to you and Avon,” Blake manages, breathless. This appears to be the last straw for a heavily abused body, because he’s out again before he even falls. Later, he suspects it might be because he knows himself to be safe, now that they’ve found him. That he’s achieved what he meant to. Avon’s efforts would not be for nothing.