Pasmo’s hands quiver now as he folds his left hand over his right, closing the locket’s mechanism, deactivating the tiny fluid catches and gears, the hinge and clasp. His daughter will sleep until the next time he wakes her.
Funny that, how the Other had never once claimed the Sight. But how else had he known to put such detail into the locket? How else? Unless… unless he’d known. Unless he HAD seen. Or been there, somehow.
He looks again through surer lenses on the shelf where the Doctor had leaned.
Plink. Plink, plink.
How had he ever been Rassilon? Suddenly he knows, knows that he will never be that man again.
For he is just a man. Just a man.
And today, that man is Pasmodius.
As for tomorrow, who can tell?
The Doctor had been right, he muses as he replaces the medal beneath his shift and robes. He was fond of the girl.
Once he has caught his breath, he will go and learn where she is, he decides, brushing a hand through his four remaining strands of shimmer-generated hair. And the Tomb of Rassilon is as good a place to start as any. That man… he must be dealt with.
But, tomorrow. Tomorrow.
After all, old men need their rest. One night is enough, to drain the water from the cup. Hopefully then, they will be ready.
It’s been a long time since old Pasmo’s read tea leaves.