The Mistress tosses and turns, discomforted in her sleep.

Her eyes tumble beneath their lids, searching, darting about frantically, trying to capture-

But no. No.

She awakens, hazy gaze opening to the darkness of her ceiling.

Instantly she turns over, eyes squeezed shut. Her fists ball white knuckled into the thin sheet she is wrapped in, soaked with sweat which is unpleasant on her too hot skin.

Please. Please.

And her mind answers somewhat, tossing her down again into the turbulent waters of memory and letting her drown again, wishing at once to go deeper and also to scramble for the surface above her which she instead drinks, throat choking with the smothering.

She dreams, the water settling in her lungs and letting her stay, held in place.

In front of her is someone she remembers better than anything, face painted in the softness of childhood and happiness. She wants to take him in her arms, hold him tight but she is held still and he is long gone, disappeared into crimson grass so thick is seems like clotted blood before her, sticky in the heat of this day as she remembers- of millions of these days she remembers.

She tries to move through the grass, released, but his angelic laugh taunts her, not realising her distress until she is among the grass and it is tall above her because, indeed, she was small then. She remembers that now.

The Master stands, calling out, crying out but the Doctor laughs from every direction, gentle and soft and enough that it makes her scream in her adult voice, torn apart as he runs on and on without her again and it rips her into wakefulness and yet and yet-

"Again."

She whispers, eyes pressed tight, tears slipping from them.

"I need to see him again." She begs her waking mind.

"Please."

The Mistress is tossed down into freezing waters where selkies scratch at her limbs and ice claws at her lungs. In the wind on a blood red plain sings a boy's voice, siren like in her pain.

She follows. She follows.

She always does.