She is waiting for him, as he knew she would be, at the Altar. She has found robes to dress her strange new body; they trail on the floor behind her like a child's.

"You found me."

"Yes, your Highness."

"I knew you would. The owner of this body had absolute faith in her friend's abilities to locate you."

"The priests set a complicated puzzle," he agrees, "But the Doctor cracked their code."

"Does it hurt?" So much mercy in those alien eyes. Too much. Illyria was never known for her compassion. An echo, an amplification perhaps, of the creature whose face she is wearing.

"No," he answers honestly, "The host is willing to share."

Illyria shakes her head. "Mine was too, at first. She felt a kinship with me. She too had a great love taken from her, before its time."

"Yet no longer?"

Illyria shrugs. The movement looks strange on her tiny, stumpy form but he recognises it nonetheless. "She would prefer I didn't re-establish my House, my Dynasty, using her face."

"She's right," he says heavily; the words are both his and the host's.

"I demand vengeance!" she snaps. "They took you from me… and they killed me."

"And they lived and died and were buried, and their Soul Stones were eventually smashed by your descendants when the world turned and your House Cadmus ascended again. This host has seen the history books. Illyria, our time is over. The world has changed. All that remains for us now is peace. Not revenge."

"No," she says, "No I cannot-"

"Then I will go," he says simply, "I will walk back to the hidden place where the host found me and I will go back to the Sleep of Stones. You will never find me again. And I will free this host and he will return for you. Believe me. That face you wear is of great value to him. As precious as I once was to you. Do not underestimate the lengths to which he will go to drive you out, and return that body to its rightful keeper."

Something strange is happening to Illyria's borrowed face; it is leaking from its ridiculously bulbous eyes. Crying, supplies the hidden host part of himself, She's crying. Illyria's sadness materialised as falling drops of rain. How beautiful; how strange.

"Jove, no. You don't understand-"

"Illyria," he says softly, "I always understand. I just never cared for your noble blood feuds and dynastic infighting. I only wished to love you. In the end that was my undoing."

More raindrops fall. "I missed you. I conquered worlds in your name, after they took you."

"Then come home," he says simply, "I am here and there are no worlds left between us."

He holds out his arms. They are too short, he thinks, as she crosses to him. Ridiculously short. But her body is similarly disproportioned, and has to stretch to find his fingertips. Her forehead comes to rest against his. It hurts his neck to crane like this, the Soul Stone at his throat hanging too high. Something is not right; this most intimate of poses does not fit these strange little bodies. The familiar cold and hard lines of her form are gone, replaced by gentle curves. He almost shudders at the clammy warmth of her touch, but some other part of him anticipates this alien heat and softness. Enjoys it. The host, he realises: this is pleasurable for him.

He brings his mouth to hers. This gesture has no equivalent for the Rangooth but he senses it is meaningful for their borrowed bodies. The Soul Stone slips into the hollow of her neck as they embrace, knitting their strange little figures together in a better fit. He ignores the disgust a dwindling part of himself feels at the movement of their mandibular parts against one another. Instead, he concentrates on the joy being in her presence freights; of the great love that she bears for him. They are together at last; he can feel her all around him, forever, and really that is all that matters…

The Soul Stone is warm against his neck, refilled with the essence of Illyria and Jove. He really should be returning it to the secret hiding place of the priests, where hopefully they can rest in eternal bliss together and not cause any more paranormal distribances. Rather distractingly, however, Clara is still kissing him. Even more perplexing: he is kissing her back.

"Clara," he manages to rasp, before she recaptures his mouth insistently. His fingers knit into her hair and she grabs a fistful of his shirt before he manages to try again. "Clara!"

This time he pushes himself away from her, gasping in spite of his respiratory bypass system, for reasons he isn't willing to speculate about.

"Doctor!" she says, smiling at him. "Thank you. I knew you'd figure it out-" She takes his face in her hands and resumes kissing him.

"Mmmph," he manages, pushing her away again. "I've remembered another reason they insist on visitors to the Sixth Church being bonded."

"Oh?" she says.

"Aphrodisiac in the Altar room," he explains, "I don't know how long you've been in here, but probably long enough to notice some effects."

"Oh," she says again. A slight colour creeps into her cheeks.

"Yes. Um. So, you know. Hold on to that-that thought and… get back to me once we're away from here if you still feel… you know. Quite as… keen…"

"Doctor?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."