Silander shakes his short cropped silver hair and sighs, glancing down at the numbers on the pages. “If you insist, my Lord, but I feel that the record will be better suited by a…” By chance he glances down just suddenly, realizing that the old man’s fingers have been soft on the door locking pad. “… ah, but this is not a formal reading for the Record, I understand now; forgive me, my Lord Pasmodius.” He straightens then, knowing what will probably come soon enough, and continues. Pasmodius knows about the Doctor’s connection to him, a lowly Citadel Guard of House Redloom. In his mind, a prayer to the Other, to the Doctor really, plays in a loop while he opens his mouth again to speak the next line from the letter in his hand.
‘Hitchemus, year four, timestamp apple dash one seventy four:
I remain Hainishtymion.
Met a woman today; she gave me a strange kind of local delicacy. Powdered, white. The smell is…
She calls it the White Lady. Says it makes you forget. How could I forget anything? I am a Time Lord. Why would I want to forget my Lord Doctor, my most favorite instructor in the ways of solid argument?
It makes no sense.
The Doctor will come for me, why should I need anything to…
I hope he is well. Yes that is it. He must be unwell, and cannot come for me.
Yes. That must be what it is.
Silander skims a few pages ahead, watching the old man watch him. Death is at the end of these pages, he knows, and the only person who can save him is sleeping in a secret room fifty levels below the ground floor of the citadel. Again, he begins to read, considering.