[There's a brief nod at her comment - he's glad to see that the trade makes sense to more than just him - and than he's all but lost in the memory she offers. And it is lovely, too. Like nothing else he's seen in all his days of travel, and even with the scouring touch of the dust it doesn't seem all that bad.
(All the same, he's very glad that the memory is from somewhere inside. He's not sure he'd like the chances on survival for anyone caught out in it.)
He's silent for a long moment, as the memory plays out. It's a moment to be enjoyed, and what need is there for words, then?
It's only when the memory of the dust storm seems to be reaching its end that he pulls up his own memory in kind. Properly, this time, instead of the flickering glimpses of before.
There is a sort of hitch in the fabric of the memories around them as he figures out how to get the memory out of his mind - things still don't work quite as he's used to, and this is a new thing besides - but eventually those fields of red grass do spring to life. Red grass under a dust-orange, waving gently in the breeze. It tickles a little too underfoot; he must have been running barefoot in the grass all those years ago and the sheer enjoyment of the moment comes through all the clearer for it.
(He tries to not think too hard on his friend-that-was, but even so it doesn't feel entirely like he's alone either - there's impressions of another mind nearby, and another voice too, even if it's one that's been muted to nothing more than a murmur of noise by the long years it's been since he last ran through the wide fields of Gallifrey.)]
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(All the same, he's very glad that the memory is from somewhere inside. He's not sure he'd like the chances on survival for anyone caught out in it.)
He's silent for a long moment, as the memory plays out. It's a moment to be enjoyed, and what need is there for words, then?
It's only when the memory of the dust storm seems to be reaching its end that he pulls up his own memory in kind. Properly, this time, instead of the flickering glimpses of before.
There is a sort of hitch in the fabric of the memories around them as he figures out how to get the memory out of his mind - things still don't work quite as he's used to, and this is a new thing besides - but eventually those fields of red grass do spring to life. Red grass under a dust-orange, waving gently in the breeze. It tickles a little too underfoot; he must have been running barefoot in the grass all those years ago and the sheer enjoyment of the moment comes through all the clearer for it.
(He tries to not think too hard on his friend-that-was, but even so it doesn't feel entirely like he's alone either - there's impressions of another mind nearby, and another voice too, even if it's one that's been muted to nothing more than a murmur of noise by the long years it's been since he last ran through the wide fields of Gallifrey.)]