He sighs and eases back down onto the rugs and pillows, and shuts his eyes against the thin veil of light from the overhead lamps full of oil.
She goes to him after a year of moments passed between eyes and the wall, and sets her face against his chest, finally to be comforted by the rise of his two hearts, and says nothing.
“… I jumped into the Loom to escape the assassins, knowing I was going to my death. And I was reborn. I’m called the Doctor now… but I remember… all the fragments of myself were scattered like seeds within that great machine-but they came together again. Now let me sleep. I’ll consume that lovely stew of yours later. Be sure and save me some of the cheese, eh?”
As the Doctor sinks away under the settling fog of his thoughts, the old nurse cracks her knuckles one by one, reveling in the only familiarity left, the touch of one’s own skin. She sets herself down on her knees by his side before the banquet she’s brought to bear, as if preparing to feast. And then she wails, crying out her confusion with silent lips, that her soundless screams might reach the heavens of this new, strange era, and be heard.