“Do you think you could leave us alone for a bit, my Lord General? I’d like to mourn it, my hair. It was good to me…” the Flesh pleads, the very image of the poignant dramatistic milquetoast with his fair hand dangling languid against his pale forehead.
Rassilon replies, “And that’s just like you, to whinge philosophic about your curls in an unfleeting moment. Still, the question must be asked.”
The Flesh looks up; his body heaves above itself, then sags, a heap of unnecessary breathing bothering to breathe. It says, “…you’re right. But if I’d stayed to be Lord President for any longer, it would have killed me, and that would have surely killed whomever I was forced to govern over, as well. And you killed people, too. We mustn’t forget just who you killed, either. That one will be a hard time washing off the walls of my memory palace, despite our working together at present.”
As the rational do, Rassilon considers this with a soldier’s vital detachment. Is the Doctor, no, the Other… his old friend… really that -he searches for the word for his own inner reasons- distracted? No… the word he wants is… unhinged.
“Your memory palace…” he adds as he walks around to face the man with earnest eyes set above a mouth suddenly hungry for the taste of ash, “… is noplace I should ever love to look for death without a guide. Can I help you scrub it clean?”
Suddenly the Flesh’s turning face is near his, blue-gray chariots of nitrous frieze plopping sideways at him in a rictus so dark even he feels shaken by what he might find should he truly look on those depths and pay them their due attention.