The Ice Room.
Former storage, full of succulent, frozen treats with eyes and limbs and unfulfilled potential.
His hands caress a bluish whitish face. The only one in here, the first of his little meals.
Small, chubby a bit. Button nose. Dribbly nostril caught in the freeze.
“An appetizer, before the rarebit... splendid!” he murmurs, grabbing the little chin, positioning his wrist bones just so to snap off a morsel or two from the skull. It’s so nice when the little chunks fracture off and shatter on the floor.
“Touch that child,” a voice breathes behind him, warming the air with tiny sprinkles of ordered chaos, “and I’ll touch you.”
The Valeshard turns around, the little boy’s chin in his twisting hand like a tiny miniature dancer.
“I hardly think ‘you’re’ one to lecture ‘me’ on the wrongness of inappropriate touching, Me!” the Valeshard moans delightedly, flustering his hands about around the frozen child’s round face, “Besides, when was the last time we dated someone over 100?”
His grey tongue flicks out; he bites it. Black blood oozes like pus over his dying lips, and he smiles.
The Doctor walks out of the shadow of the entry doorway and smiles his ‘own’ little smile.
“I’m not the one who slept with Jack. Am I, Zagreus?” he says, looking away from the Valeshard and crossing to stand before the single statue in the room, “I’ll be taking that shard of ice in my heart back now, mind.”