Flashback to Flamina’s dream, part one.
The Doctor reaches out a green velvet stick of an arm, searching for another rock to grasp.
The rocks are wet. They writhe with the slime of Gallifrey’s Northern Sea. He’s long forgotten the name, but the briny stench of bird dung is something to be remembered at all times.
He feels his red, flat, slightly female and altogether feline lips twitch in an involuntary smile. If he goes on any more rambling muses he’ll grow a long scarf, like in the old days.
Just a few more metres... feet… lengths of space… as he quibbles with himself over which definition of span is the most accurate, his fingers find another slippery purchase, warm and wet, just like the first. Hold on.
He lifts his fingers to his face. Reddish orange, and so very not nice. Not slime? Bloody cliffs, and not slime? How many people has she murdered? Ah, he feels as though he will forever be saying it- sorry for the mess I’ve left. That’s why he’s here, isn’t it? Obligingly, he wipes the fluid on his coat and keeps going down, although not in the way he expects – the rock that was so sure before is wiggling, back and forth in its hide-y-hole like a little lost predator. One crack and woosh! He’s skidding again. He pulled the rock, of course; he really can’t help himself. So it’s really no surprise to him when he begins tumbling too, head to rock and foot to head and butt cheeks to consequences, down and down and down. There’s a healthy trail of slimy muddy bits clouding up behind him. Fondly, he remembers diving lessons, and decides to…