Wednesday groans, eyes rolling open again. He was solidly unconscious there - if only for a few moments. "This isn't any place for me," he murmurs. His breathing is slow and a little unsteady, and he looks even paler than he did before.

A hand reaches up to grip the Doctor's arm - and he stiffens, letting out a shuddering breath. "War, war, all dead," he mumbles. "Ten million ships burn in the long light of the sunset." His hand tightens, almost painfully, on the Doctor's arm, and he pulls himself up, heedless of any upset he might be causing. "The last son of the dead kings, buried men who live through the world..." His eyes are rolled back into his head. "Then shall come to pass these tidings also: all the earth shall tremble so, and the crags, that trees shall be torn up from the earth, and the crags fall to ruin; and all fetters and bonds shall be broken and rent..." His voice trails into a whisper.

He collapses again. That he hasn't actually let go of the Doctor's arm may be a problem.