“So you know what I am, then? That I am no child?” Borusa breathes, collecting herself with a practiced huff.
The long-haired man smiles a warm smile from beneath his dark, concealing veil of brown hair, his grin the only point of reference she can put the voice to.
“... everyone is a child to me, sometimes- regardless, so many questions, and from you, a young-old little Time Lord! Let us make haste to watch your companions; they will shortly be caught up in something, and I do not want you trampled- stay here.” He points a sharp, squarish finger to the painting behind where Jack is now standing with River, and Borusa follows his direction.
Borusa’s art starved eyes cannot help but stare at the portrait panel.
The frame is of simple woven gold; the canvas, however…
A winged man, beautiful and naked and effeminate, stands easily on one hand, upside down with his feet up, one leg bent at the knee, the outstretched long toe touching a passing cloud. His hair floats downward from his body in a ribbon of revealing veil. From his upturned womb there issues half a handsomely thin woman obscured by her own long hair, its strands of golden, brown and white. The woman’s hair swirls around him like water, decorating his pregnancy and hiding his nethers. Her two upraised arms are entwined and apart, like a caduceus-tree, and the palm of each hand beareth a fruit, one pear for each hand- one fruit bright, one fruit dark.