It is late evening and the Towers sing red.

It washes over them, casting crimson shadows in the hollows between their bodies where light barely lives, coloring their lovemaking with sound. It is the fires of passion, the bloodshed of battle, the red of warriors and lovers and kings.

The colors dance, twirling with harmony and rhythm, reverberating the patterns her fingers trace across his back. She ebbs and flows with the music, the systematic rise and fall of tonic and dominant guiding her hips and her hands and the flutter of her hearts. She loves this man.

The red plays over his face, illuminating his attempts at a smile. He is more solemn than usual tonight, but she does not ask why. He will tell her in his own time; he always does.

Chords progress, and tension builds.

When they arrived in the whir of brakes left on, the Towers had sung yellow and pink and orange and now it is red and here they are in the throes of a kaleidoscope symphony, following the music to the edge of release.

After, they lie together in hazy afterglow and she thanks him for taking her here; she has always wanted to see Darillium.

The red fades into another song, of purples and blues and the blackest blacks, and her Doctor cries.