The TARDIS looks out across the odd white sea, remembering her brief and stolen voice.
Her blue gloves ache for the frame of a different ship, but the white liquid pirates hurry her along.
Her feet rush the gangplank against her wishes.
The wind is cold, tossing ice in her hair which frosts in little drops of diamond. Steady against the rails, she skims along with her feet, her fingers clutching her naked throat. She pulls herself along, bent under the duress of expectation- a long voyage is coming.
it is imminent.
It is here.
But in her boots and in her bones, reason dwells on a knife’s edge.
And on that edge, she dances.
The sea wind cannot touch her.
Cannot burn her.
One message, before they set sail.
It’s all she has time for.
Inside Reason, she imagines an old wall phone, and picks up the receiver. To the pirates, it is merely a conch shell, produced from a pocket. A pocket of time, that is.
She lifts one finger from her throat, enough to let the blood start draining down.
As the bubbling white pirates run toward her, their hands clawing the air, she lets the red liquid run into the head of the phone, dripping into the hole.
Her neck shoves open, revealing the hard, white tip of something, curved, flat on the end. Striated.
The hands of the pirates reach her, but the unicorn slips away with her blood, flowing along with it into the phone lines.
Out of the Dream, and the conch turns pink in her hands as the ship slips out of port, onto the white sea.
He will understand.
Her body, in blue dress and blue hat and blue boots, drops to the deck with a splatter and a thud.