Rassilon can feel something squirming in the bunting he carries.
As his footsteps tremble up the ramps to the bright hangar, the large space diminished now of all departing ships, he spies a single hanger-on; that standing beacon.
The Blue Lady.
It is done, then.
His arms settle the bundle against his chest, easing the white weight of swollen cloth into its place near the middle of him, the waypoint between his two thumping hearts.
The TARDIS doors creak open for him as he nears her; but as he sets inside, he finds a quiet din has erupted within the usual cacophony of her antique timepiece movements.
Tucking the clothling bunch close beneath his chin by way of quick fingers, he scuttles by the console room, floating anxious feet toward the resonate of sound.
He follows the clanging like a prancing cat, ducking behind shifting doors and peering in rooms as he wanders toward the origination of that singular noise, touching base with walls and tables set with the occasional black cube of a New York nightstand, or, here and there, the unmistaked curl –dressed in orange- of a Louis chair.
His long fingers flit over a doorknob hewn of fine dark bronze, set in an incongruous arched barn door pickled with age. The whole thing changes to a nice tidy polished brass affair, with a paw knocker and a porthole, then lets him in.
Rassilon changes arms, then lifts his naked foot to step inside.
There are creaks; he can hear them.