Murmurs like tidal pool ripples wash through the gathered.
“Is he all right?”
“I think he’s gone senile.”
“Just wait; he usually provides a show. He’s probably faking... whatever it is.”
“Maybe he’s contracted an alien disease!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. They say he sleeps with humans.”
“I wouldn’t let anyone of House Redloom hear you say that, Polluxina.”
“Chen 7! Oh god we’re all going to die!” The owner of this comment grabs up someone else’s robe to cover her mouth.
“I’m not amused.” the Doctor says suddenly, lowering the cadence of his voice until it is soft. His face is calm. His eyes drink the world and glisten like a new and mewling fawn. Then he opens his mouth again, and shatters it. “Does anyone care that we are in the middle of a crisis? I won’t have it. I will leave and let you rot if this continues. And then you’ll never know.” He dusts off his chest area and cups his fingers at Borusa’s ear, “I think it’s time for me to go. I was a fool to stay here, hoping. You and any others you trust are free to come with. I don’t care any-”
A gleam in the light, amongst all the other gleams. But this one is different.
Long, thin bones and long thin fingers itch for the touch of silver kept in the hair. A black comb falls from ocean strands and clicks on the floor. High above, the suns of Gallifrey cower behind the Pod in the ceiling, afraid.