The Doctor's dream encompasses many lives, and many layers. Whose dream will fade, and whose will rise in the end?
The Master wanders down a hall filled with them.
Their gold frames grunt along the walls, tired of being unhung, of lying on bruised corners in the dust of centuries.
“Raise me up!” they seem to sing from the moldy shadows of pedestals, “Put me in my place again!” they cry, to his embattled ears.
He is disused to quiet. To silence. At least, he used to be.
Koschei of Oakdown, the Time Lord formerly known as Harold Saxon, Prime Minister of Britain. The Master.
“At least the drums are gone,” he murmurs softly, inhaling the scent of paint and restorer’s glue, “Did you come to bed last night? I can’t remember.”
His head tilts slowly upward from where it’s been gathering his feet; his chin adjusts leftward, rightwise, grinding itself like a sword at the stone in the back of his jaw. Dithering upward, unwilling to be cold, he looks up at the ladder standing in the center of the museum’s domed ceiling, and, shows some interest.
“What is that?” he asks, covering his eyes at the bright glint peeking from a dabbed on application of plaster.
“It’s nothing, just some old fresco I found; it’ll be done soon.”
Flamina’s voice, fluttering down to him like a butterfly on a high seawind.
“No, I mean, what is that shiny bit? It blinded me, for a moment.”