“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.