He’s never applied to his own person the notion of lesserness.
He’s never held the notion of failure close to his breast.
The fact he sits in his stone cell beneath the Capital, beneath the little mice he once had owned, does not deter him from the fact he is a leader.
The new Lord President had been wise to set him a tiny monument, rather than a towering grave.
Inconsequential, for he has long suspected the man has a blue fly in his ear.
And wasn’t it obvious now? That the blue fly is the same one he had kept fairly close to his ear once, too.
Question was, how useful was the fly, in its great age? They rarely lived long, regardless of what planet they came from.
A shadow clothed in the sheltering glow of a perception filter that works on Time Lords has been waiting through his reverie. He breaks it himself, not deigning to give even this small pocketful of political grain to the man who is standing before the door of his cell.
“Did you bring the parts I requested, cretin? I cannot reconstruct the machine that will disguise me without them. And without the forged documentation… we might as well forfeit the game.”
The bear’s mask nods; a silver gleam runs its length across the cell bars. A grey glove passes a bundle through the bars.
Yes, cell bars.
Shiny above, filthy below.
It always makes him laugh. It makes him cry.
For is he not Rassilon?
Oh, he does laugh, this time, as he construes the bits of machina and the papers.
Yes, he is Rassilon. But tonight, Rassilon will die.