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.