Thirty White Horses
The two flashes of dark light, the Doctor realizes as he wakes, are not burning coals; no- nothing so innocuous as that.
They are two eyes.
Two calm, red-ringed blue eyes filled with the promise of death.
Thank the stars... those youthful eyelids are closed. He still has...
“Borusa said something about my Cossie being one of your experiments, before I tried to kill you back then. In the Old Days. When were you going to share?” Rassilon whispers, bending and dampening the Doctor’s forehead with a wetted white flannel.
“There is a time for your anger...” the Doctor says softly, through the rasping file of a throat wrapped by the other man’s omnipresent hands, “...but it is not now. We have a task to complete. Then you may blame me in whatever fashion you choose. Focus on the Present, Rassilon. Focus on the N... GAACK!”
The big, strong hands become a big, strong vice- the vicious clench of husbandly animosity vivacious on Rassilon’s face whilst he applies himself to the Doctor’s throat as one would a ripe orange to a table juicer.
“You and your ever so thoughtful gifts. I ought to beware them by now.” Rassilon quirks brightly, releasing his fingers as if murmuring a poem to a milkfaced girl.
The Doctor collapses to the floor like a rag toy, his head striking in ricochet across the tiling, skipping his skull like a flat stone across a lake. Despite the healthy streak of blood booming from the shallow scalp split, he is not knocked unconscious; instead he moves to sit, rubbing his neck with all his available hand while the other hand pushes up from the floor.
He gets up, takes a breath. Blinks slightly. Stares out.
His feet twitch suddenly, dancing to the same flamenco as the tic in his cheek.
“Of course you should,” he murmurs, cocking his head a little as he rises to stand, pushing off from his knees with a light groan and a smile full of teeth. “Of course you should. I just gave birth to twins you know- have a little care!”
A trickle of red-orange runs down his face, invading as it winks his left eye like a river of sweat.
“Do I have something in my eye?” he breathes, brushing off his damp purple coat, now stained black from shoulder to pocket in an odd patchwork diagonal reminiscent of Hellequin and Saint Francis.
By this time, however, the Mirrors, now a troupe of Italian comedy players composed of dense silver and lights, have emerged from inside the Jade Pagoda along with Borusa, in whose small hand a smaller six year old Flamina’s is held fast.
“Oh lord, I’m having an aneurism, I just know it! All this needless emoting!” grumps the Flesh Valeyard from a doorway. He then sways dramatically away toward a west-leading hallway which, for once, clearly displays the word ‘Bedrooms’ above the entry. His bum however, displays a blue post-it note upon which is written the eponymous phrase,
“Are we ready, then?” the Doctor asks, looking up and gazing into empty space as he licks his lips, “...there’s only one more party member, and then we’re off to face the Final Boss!” He jumps up and down, flapping his fingers like a fangirl.
A white statue of Fortuna whispers into view, from which a golden voice echoes flatly, “...looking for this?”
Her hand bears up a wiggling Master, still in Flesh form, his hoodie now more a pink rabbit suit.
She drops him to the floor- his Flesh body spills then flattens, bouncing back into shape like a rubber chew toy.
His dark eyes meet the Doctor’s, and they smile in unison.
“Look Kos, you’re a pervert! Your girlfriend’s only six years old now. Isn’t that lovely?” the Doctor squeals, smacking his clapping hands together like a candy-crazed child.
“I can always make another one.” the Flesh Master murmurs, ignoring Borusa’s blue stare. “Needless to say, your impressions of me are improving.”
“Aren’t they though?” the Doctor quirks, reaching for Rosette’s... for Rose’s hand. “Thank you for bringing him, my love,” he says, elbowing her in the ribs as he buries himself in her hair. “Mirrors!”
Well, I’ll be seein ya at our usual place,” she murmurs, taking the White Pyramid out from the middle of her abdomen and turning it over; a gush of water spills out, chilling the air around her feet and bringing frost up on the priceless Klimt rug on the Library floor. “...you know! That silly old hill. Whenever you’re...”
With drooping shoulders she shakes out the Pyramid, replacing it into the receptacle of her trunk, then disappears in a gasp of brittle wind, smelling of dried roses.
Ignoring the wet stain darkening the contrasting stark golds and half-nudes of the old Klimt, the Doctor turns to the Mirrors; they slide out of human form, slipping, melting like the glossy ghosts of ice cream sticks until they’re mere silvery slabs standing behind each of the three men still in the Library room.
The Doctor starts to take his place in the middle between the Master on the right and Rassilon on the left, but then sucks in a breath, holding up a finger after dampening it with his tongue.
“I almost forgot! To the wardrobe, Batman!” he cries as he scampers away, exiting through a hidden side door pressed into the paneling near a shelf of old knitting manuals. “It’s an occasion, and I need something to wear!”
Rassilon pales as he stares after the receding panel... and as Borusa watches for the half-second it takes the color to drain from the man’s features and return again, she bites back a frown.