“Was he good to you, while you were growing inside him?” Rassilon asks softly as he watches his daughter sit by the window, her fingers curled on the sea green comb she’s pushing through her hair.
Flamina turns from the window, a sight in her stark white robe and sash, and sighs. Then her face lights up, her narrow smile stretching up to touch her dimples. It doesn’t fade and she begins to speak.
“... for a thousand years, that man kept me safe. I played in a garden, where the trees were so...” her voice quavers, the dying trumpet of a tiny, exhausted elephant. “I was inside his mind for a long time. The catch pools in that garden were filled with silver water, and the hedges were like mazes topped with fog! They went on for years...” She reaches to touch Rassilon’s cheek, grabbing his skin. Exploring it with careful birdish fingers. “I knew... all I had to do was cry or trip, or cut myself on a little thorn. He would be there. Waiting. He taught me how to ride a bicycle- that’s a vehicle from Earth. We sang songs. We painted portraits and landscapes by the sea. He put sand in my hair, and we watched the sun go down together, with my head in his lap. I would... he... sometimes he would... he often kept...”
She pauses, biting the inside of her lip and staring up into Rassilon’s patient blue gaze, studying his face for the end of her sentence.