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The morphant shuddered in its urn. Thoughts cloudy. Still weak. It needed time to reform, to remember its purpose. There would be time now, it knew, time enough with its chosen guardian (‘Doctor’ came to it blearily, the word muddy with longing and fury.)
Alone, it could silently contemplate—
“I got you a casket!” said the Doctor, as something thunked next to the urn. The morphant shuddered again, this time with surprise and irritation. Always chatting, the Doctor, it remembered too late. Never quiet. “I think you'd approve; it's the sort of style you'd go for.”
Fingers drummed against the urn, testing, baiting. It wanted to hiss, to bite, but knew it had to stay hidden. It needed mastery of this form. Substance. Yes, then a new body.
“Oh, Master,” the Doctor sighed. “Until I see your ashes in temporal stasis and your mind registered in the Matrix, I think the rumours of your death have been grrreatly exaggerated.”
Smugness coiled in him, thick, lush. The Doctor knew him too well.
“It's a long way to Gallifrey, almost as long as the way to Tipperary. Cup of tea?”
Their companionable silence was almost bearable.
Then the Doctor started whistling.