The Valeshard grins again, this time showing rotting teeth and yellow gums thick with pus.
“Aren’t you? But what makes you think the little boy who lied can take anything from me?” he breathes, coughing on the frozen child’s blue lips, “... you didn’t kill Rassilon you know,” he adds, setting a finger along his lips and licking before applying the digit to the statue of Rose’s bosom, poking at her left breast.
The Doctor ignores him, focusing instead on the small child turned blue with unnatural entropy; the round chin still has fingerprint marks of black, like ink stains.
He goes to the boy, dabs his finger in his mouth, and wipes away the stains with his thumb.
“Much better. You were saying? Sorry, I was busy doing important stuff.”
The Valeshard brings his hands together, one breath, two. Another. Soon, he is air-clapping in the cold.
“Time to die, little boy,” he whimpers with a theatre mask sob, “I rather think you’ve worn your welcome.”
He looks around, kicking idly at the statue’s foot, demolishing a yellow petal with the toe of his black shiny shoe, grinding it into the ice.