“The feed troughs for the catsharks...” he gasps, rubbing the sight back into his gluey eyes.
The light seems dimmer...
Closing them for the moment, he reaches out with his fist, knocking his balled fingers in crude panto against every structure he knows is within the dust pile radius lit by the light of the only moon of Gallifrey visible from this location.
“You know, Kenny...” the Doctor rasps, as loudly as he can with dust in his lungs and such a persistent gnawing in his back, “It’s probably why they chose this site for the altar of Hennalneia- those old dock builders. Like they knew. But what do I know? I’m a Time Lord, not an archaeologist... my wife would have a field day.”
No answer, of course. Gutarriezknindracastorblyledgespillioth’s pleasingly dark-skinned body is deeply unconscious, lost in the shiny, sleepful battleground of his own stabilising regeneration cycle against that broken column yonder.
With a sigh of content, the Doctor blows, forcing the air from his lungs to travel more than five footsteps away and free the middle trough of dust. With that done, he draws a last breath and opens his bruised hand, dropping the circle-shaped gleam of carved gold inside it into the trough.