( What is it, to walk a field of corpses and know their blood, your blood, caking your soles? To churn good mother's earth with part and particle and debris of decay, metabolised as fertiliser? All that which lived, dies, lives again.

They are dead, her dead, still dead. They will weave, warm, into the fabric of Clara's existence.

He does not reach out to coax her hands free, to serve her the gentle reassurance a child (his son) might welcome. Only shifts on his heels, timely, shield of his back turned to her — so that, in the claustrophobic, cluttered confines of the lift, she might have the conceit of privacy. )

And you yet live. ( He suspects, to the Doctor's gladness. ) Forgive yourself the notion.