In the sprinkling blink of the hospital lights, pensive and dying above him, Rassilon finds that shadow lines of ice have infiltrated the little room.
There is a fluffy white thing at the foot of the bed mechanism, half-encased in a sheet of the spreading freeze.
Slowly his eyes climb upward, needing and heeding the obvious source of noise, like little men attempting a tantalising cliff.
A white form, draped in sheets.
An obvious body, settled on the bed as if in sleep.
The pits and curries and waves of the not breaths of ample lungs and ampler bosom… the tight upper body sinew… the taut shoulders… the golden hair like coins… the fawn skin of a sunlit day… it is the Flesh of River Song, certainly- he can smell the difference; there is a slightly industrial, somewhat dusty alteration in the scent of a Flesh’s body fluids, undetectable by most humanoids, save for Gallifreyans and certain other more advanced races.
Petrichor, indeed… he muses, remembering the Doctor’s blue notes.
But her arms are grown into her, supporting her risen stomach in ways that many would assume nature never intended. The elbows twist in a vined, broken tandem, the fingers unite like running roots; the distended, up-twisting belly itself more like a sapling tree with a thick core then a stomach at all, now. And the bright blue eyes with flecks of grey and green lie unoccupied, a surety that the only living creature here now is struggling to crown from the strange white tree growing from the dead doll’s empty husk.
River Song’s Flesh became a tree… perhaps the ice caught her before she could give birth, and her essence ejected from the borrowed Flesh, directing the material to protect the creature she was encompassing.