The Doctor learns to Rejoice in the Sun.
Letters in red.
They fly in the face of the dusk outside.
Flamina can feel them, calling her to slip deeper, to find them out. To dare and wipe them off the wall.
But she cannot see them.
Are they being spoken?
Cannot hear them.
The light outside is violet and pale, bled through by clouds of loud red.
Flamina cannot fathom their twisting way along her neural pathways, their floating forays along the dust already settling in her sleeping mind.
Already, her hand is scrabbling in the sheets, wild. Variable. Lashing out.
Sweat stings in her eyes, bringing salt and random sensations. She blinks.
The soft of pillowcase.
The hard of the Master’s absence last night.
A middle toe that nearly froze because the coverlet came off sometime in the night.
Her fingers spill over the thickness of the closest heavy bed post, white nails crouching like a hungry spider as awake fills her brain.
She rubs a white hand through her long white hair and glances at the window instinctively, buttering herself up for the cold flush of daylight.
But there are no twin suns winking drunk eyes through the glass at her, blinding her with the daylight.
No. the dark is still there, the chorus of twilight.
And, no stars.
“Still night,” she murmurs, dazed as she calls out to the wall panel to light the room, “...bright, 30 to 35 per cent.”
No light, no light.