“Ah! Hail, my friend!” a long familiar breath whispers, the speaker unheard by the now absent boy and, quite acutely, hidden by the artificial night of the Great Lord’s crypt. “What are you up to in my old haunting ground? I don’t remember telling any of the little pigeons where this place is.”
The breath becomes a crisping of frost in the air; the frost becomes a voice and blue eyes, those blue, blue eyes, crystallized in the cold to the hard ice of man. Only one man.
“My Lord.” treads he who is not the Great Lord, so carefully now. One slip and his endless mirth will be at an end. “You have cost me a string to be cut. I came to serve myself, that much is plain. But how I might serve you as well, now that you are here, is yet to be seen.”
Does he dare, he thinks, does he dare it, in this place? Can he accomplish such a death? Oh, for wicked irony! A frequent bedfellow since that time ago.
“Ha ha haha ha. You are as easy to read as a child’s book of pictures. Shall I give you some leash with which to hang yourself?” says himself the real Rassilon, now come fully into view against the dark. “Did you kill the Time Lord whose appearance you stole?”
The Assassin, as he is known to himself, schools his features. If he lets on to the Great Lord, he will be dead yesterday. No- the Great Lord will root him out eventually.
So he tells the truth, belying nothing of his intentions. “I did not have time. He still lives. These surroundings were handy for that. Did you have something in mind, My Lord?”