.

.

There is something frenzied, primal, raw in the Master's wrath that echoes of bloody plague, biblical sacrifice. At these times, the Master is like a rain of blood – the Doctor once chanced upon an ocean planet of carnivorous peoples that stained the seas red in timeless war. He remembers the salt of the water and the salt of the blood, welling up inside his ears, nostrils, mouth. It fell thick and guttural, and didn't stop, not ever.

This is the Master as he rages: pounds of flesh, slapping down, the water pounding like drums.

.

.

Deep in the tropics of Calamundi even the wind perspires. There beads of sweat cling to the Doctor like swarming locusts and the cloying reek of the jungle holds him in a sick embrace. Wrong, that closeness of alien heat. Wrong, the scratchy brush of the Master's suit, the abhorrent familiarity his pulse engenders – bumbumbumbum – as their wrists meet. Pressed up against him the Master is the sultry heat of the jungle at high-noon, inexorable in its intimacy and oppressive in its fever.

.

.

Hush.

The snow blankets the ground like bed-covers pulled over. The lull seeps into everything – motion stills, bells cease to toll, laughter chokes into soundless gasps and whispers disperse like smoke. The Doctor pauses too, his foot raised above a patch of new snow. He takes in the solemnity of the deep Winter night and his smile wanes like a Winter's day.

Across the room the levity leaves the Master's face in bare seconds, leaves as the sun does, leaves his face stark. They face each other in a vacuum, with nothing but the chill truth to warm them.

In the distance the Doctor fancies he sees the flicker of festival lights, and his foot falls onto the snow with the gentlest of crunches; the breaking of the moment is the fall of an icicle.

The Doctor lets his gaze fall.

.

.

Uproarious, the coyote-winds bark with laughter, clamor and clout at him. This is how the Master giggles, high pitched and frantic. The winds of time can shred a person into atoms of a person, into less and then nothing at all; the wind that is the Master is no less furious. He blows hot and cold and doesn't cease until the Doctor thinks his skin will raw into flesh. Still the Doctor whistles and waits, and begs – please, please – for the winds to die down.

.

.

.

This, now, this:

On Gallifrey twin moons rose like a revelation. In this way their eyes now meet.