Why is River’s face in his mind, of all people?
The Master wonders at her laugh as he watches the Flesh version of his old friend meander around in circles, tripping over little stones he would have seen if he were…
If he were sane.
“It will be now, if ever,” he murmurs to himself, looking suddenly down at his hands.
His fingers itch to move, as if tiny golden scarabs are strolling up his sleeves. Using his flesh as a loo for their dead bodies, he imagines morbidly. A laugh brushes his lips.
This itch, this fervor to release, this golden irritation, he knows now, will never leave him.
It is, despite his former selves, that desire he buried along the lines of some dusty evening, so long ago, when he was made to look into the Schism, and all things Changed in the light of that darkened swirl of shattered mirror.
He allows this, this… Good… to flow, like a row of white candles burning swiftly alight the red runners of an Earthian church.
Desire floods up through his back, stuffing his legs with cool light that chills and comforts like ice on the tongue. Like the falling of snow on hot grass.