A short little piece I wrote about two years ago.

The skies of Gallifrey used to be red; orange and bright at midday, and crimson, dark like blood, at dusk. Red had been his favourite colour for the longest time; it was beautiful, fierce. It reminded him of home and helped him cope with the pain of being exiled from his homeland, reminded him of the people he had been forced to leave behind.

Now he sees red and it makes him cringe. He sees nothing but fire and blood and destruction, so much destruction, as Gallifrey burns and crumbles around him. The scarlet fields becoming ash, the towering spires of great cities reduced to rubble, daleks running rampant, the time lords falling, and the sky, that once so beautiful sky, scorched and heavy with smoke.

Everything burning. Just burning, burning, burning. He closes his eyes and he can still smell the stench, can still hear the screams. It's only through pure willpower that he keeps himself from screaming along with them, standing there in the TARDIS.

Red used to remind him of home, but now it's only a harsh reminder of everything he's lost.