Is he steaming with it?
He steeps, like a piping teabag.
The itch drones across his shoulderblades.
Icy glaciers forecast themselves from his spine like augurs of ancient frost, pillaring out in spiral twirls from his shivering, twitching back.
His bluing eyes flicker over the Flesh-thing, still dancing in the dark amidst the failing connections between synapses, the dying lights of the crystalline trees around them now flickering across the spent face.
Soon this Flesh will die.
And Koschei of Oakdown will make sure it doesn’t take anyone with it.
As wings sprout like beanstalks from his upper body, he wonders at the Flesh’s melting face.
It is staring at him. Pleading. It is beginning a shift to complete hindbrain shutdown now; soon nothing will be left but a glimmer of the man he loves. And then, that spark too will fade.
The Doctor has shed his skin. And so must he, the Master. His heart is ice; his mind is ice. At last.
It looks like the poor Flesh is trying to cry, but the bits of its skin are drooping in sideways catchpools, trickling down over its body in white, soggy waterfalls.