His granddaughter, his Arkytior, opens her eyes to him, then presses the simple, lightweight letter into his long hand, applying just the right pressures to his palm, in a language of touches Rassilon’s pets will never guess. Then she grins again, and brushes something away from the corner of his mouth before he can open it again.
“Oh, did I save some for later again? Well, no matter. Why don’t you rest yourself while we see what Uncle has given us…” he says, pressing a finger to the girl’s forehead. “… and I’m sorry my precious child, but you’re not coming with me.”
Arkytior feels her short bob of curls begin to follow his finger against her will, but though her young-old eyes glisten at his little betrayal and pour out her bloody understanding like two white holes, she can do nothing to resist his hypnotist’s trick, and knows better than to try. Instead, she blinks and falls back, collapsing against him, her hands weakly clutching his black-smudged shirt even as her favorite nurse, a doubly crow-footed bald woman, slightly shorter than he in her usual greyish trousers and a yellow shawl, comes into the lead-lined room, which, conveniently enough, boasts hermetically sealed egressical stone arches on several sides. He watches in silence as her silver-grey eyes, shaped like crescent moons, scan the room, as if hoping to find something. Does she know? She was wearing his cloak earlier…
Préjà vu. And Déjà vu. And Dallyrasse between them. He can just imagine them as caricatures, walking through the park one day in May, like Bunny Fufu. And, much like Bunny Fufu, Dallyrasse enjoys the bopping of heads. Usually off shoulders.