He is , as the humans would say, Prometheus in the shade of the rock, waiting. Gallifrey’s version is infinitely more accurate. After all, it was a sun that was stolen, and not by Prometheus. All of them are guilty, really.
The room is so still, with him gone. Needing new decoration, because the previous arrangement does not suit that man at all. He never even took off his ring for him. That damn silver band.
The decorative sheath at the back of his head clicks as he slides the comb-knife back into place. It hangs below his cerulean locks, so the skull cap of his official robes won’t pester it. Won’t allude. His eyes ache; they burn. They sting. Tears are running lines in his mascara.
If he loses, then he will finish the Job. For his lover.
It’s best left unrequited. And as for the Doctor, he will do for him. For that man, a last thrust in the dark. Oh yes. It will be redness and the little death for the Doctor tomorrow.