“...I am not the Doctor.” Rassilon says simply, before reaching out with a bare hand and squeezing his fingers slowly together until his nails form the little pale mouth of a fist with a crooked thumb tongue.
The Flesh Valeyard’s eyes bulge out at the sound of the resultant damp krikkk, and he suddenly begins to smile at Rassilon’s advancing form, despite the groans he hears coming from his own dismal ache of a throat.
“Good to see you’ve come in out of the cold, as well...” Rassilon murmurs, offering a hand up and a steady shoulder as the Flesh Valeyard eyes Roda’s inert body, “... at least now all three of us can quit with suffering, for the moment. Do you remember the taste of my famous recipe for stuffed cat shark? He’s stringy and... not exactly seafood, but he’ll do.”
Then they gather themselves through the TARDIS entry, and the Lady is happy to shut her doors behind them.