Pasmo runs his thumb along the edges of the flattened sphere of silver lying like a touch under his folds of purple silk, feeling the cold of the metal against his skin. The ice in the medal reminds him of rain, that very rain. The rain that was falling when his unborn daughter...
Little freezing drops- they’d gone plink plink plink on the window glass outside his wife’s room. The child had died inside her, and she soon after. He would forever curse the vicious harpy who had mote it be.
He remembers it, ah so well. With his hands against her mother’s belly, he had promised her a daylight of two suns, free from that old time repression. He had promised her red grass and flowers and catsharks and gulls, silver mountains and cities of metal and crystal, all dwarfed by giant trees. Instead, she had received a penance that should have been his, what all of Gallifrey had not deserved. And from their Mother. She, the winged witch who defended her rotting nest atop the hill with her claws and her teeth and the spreading of her legs. As if the old ways were not immune to the power she would later claim was hers, once she’d been stripped of most of what she’d taken.
He hadn’t wanted this.
But the rot was here, regardless. That someone like that ingrate could suddenly emerge from the stinking, eaten woodwork and usurp his place was evidence enough.
It meant he’d failed.