As he looks at the light, a figure forms, growing out of the shimmering, shallow depths of the medal’s guts; the light forms a pyramid, ending above in a point so bright he might be forced to blink. He doesn’t want to.
And then she’s floating in the air, no longer a point, but a promise. A gift the Other had given him, so long ago. She is an infant, smiling in her mother’s arms.
He waits. She grows. Now she is seven years old, running through what might be red grass, chasing one of the little flying amphibians. A Chortlefrog.
Plink. Plink, plink.
He blinks; that reminds him, he ought to have had Omega recondition certain parameters in the autonomous nerve programming in the original Loom before he sent him to his death…
And now she is 20.
Her long hair is almost the color of bark, all curls at the ends and straight in the middle; her eyes are bright blue sky, with bits of pearly iridescence sprinkled in among the rods of her new irises. Her gaze is just beginning to settle. They’ll know her permanent eye color soon.
He blinks again, making a decision this time.
She is fifty. Her long white hair is snow against her cheeks. She is not looking at him, now; the book in her hand is much more important. The cover reads, the Unabridged Histories of Gallifrey.
He blinks again.
This time, her lavender eyes are 120 years old. Ready to choose a Chapterhouse. Is that a flicker of red under her gown? So she has chosen already. She is laughing with him, laughing with him, no, well, yes, with him, but also, someone beyond him. The person with the…