A Quellious Siege
“At last, our destination,” Rassilon murmurs softly to the greenish grass as he steps out into the sunlight of the Perpetuuan day.
He gazes out across the wide plain, looking for forest, casting himself away to search, for pure nostalgia’s sake.
Of course, he needn’t bother.
He knows the way to the crashed ship; he’s known it for a long time.
He sets to walking north, through the forests, with their dense leafy coverage, far denser than Gallifreyan canopy, but fair enough.
Strange how there were no life signs when he arrived, or before, during the sweeping scans he conducted. Perhaps their huts are lined with lead, then?
He laughs as he walks due northwest- a preposterous notion, and an inordinate waste of time. Still, he knows the truth of his odd joy’s timing-that pointless humor is good for making time fly faster. Every soldier knows this. The Doctor, who thought himself the savior of this world at the time of his own arrival, is perhaps, Rassilon reasons flatly with a red berried bush he passes, a man who knows it better than most.
Yet he chose to come here, much as the Doctor had, regardless of any conscious decision. He arrived, after all.
They both arrived.
Here, on this planet.
Only, there are no more vampires to fight. The Hydrax is long dead.
And the villages should be thriving, even, perhaps, developing primitive space travel capability.
He looks up to the sun, sees the wreck of the Hydrax up above the tree line.
It won’t be long, now. And what are a few more spans to a man such as he, who has walked through time? So impatient! He smiles at that, remembering the Other and his pacing habits, his habits of pacing.
“What would you say, I wonder?” he murmurs to the empty air as he approaches the wreck. The castle-like ship, overgrown with so much stone now, it resembles a mountain covered in moss, rather than any sort of ship. Absently, almost fondly as he pushes aside one of the once great starship’s moss-hung entry doors, he considers the beams of sunlight that filtered down on his body from the forest ceiling.
He takes several steps inside the green and growing corridor, then stops.
The light has stopped flooding in from the open door.
As if he would not notice.
At his back, he hears the stony lesson of wings and feet chorusing the absence of his gaze, and smiles.
And Rassilon, not one to be outdone by dark corners, smiles again more slowly, injecting a touch of nerves into his bearing, then strolls into the darkness beyond the vestibule intent on his prize; a hummed tune on his lips, because he knows the difference.
… the difference between the flap of shoed feet, the scuff of stone fingers, and the click of a lock.
And he will let them think he cares.