“Be gentle, Dallyrasse!” cries the Doctor, wrenching one hand in between his neck and the garrote just before the Assassin has the time to pull it closer together and cut off his life. ‘He’s been lost a long time! I’m dizzy now- you have to help me!” he raises his hand, and remembers Hitchemus, when he called the storm and left those watching to wonder if it was really just the armband he used, or whatever had driven him to play that violin until the strings had burned and snapped and furled like fern leaves.
With a nod to the Doctor, Rassilon too thrusts out his hand, palm up, as if expecting a tithe long withheld. In the clouds high above, lightning crackles, buzzing through the metal work lacings of the Citadel dome like a spiralling, vast aurora, in so many colors, that only a few can be seen. Yellows mixing into golds and greens like ribbons, great seas of orange fire spinning into red curls like clay on a wheel, red crashing into violet sky and blue sapphires, all of it distilling into silent symphony on crystal and stone and metal, on arches and doorways, on faces. On eyes.
For a moment, the Assassin is blinded; transfixed. He cannot take it in. His body shudders.
Particles crack and fall, showering on all the players in the Doctor’s little game.
From the heavens, there falls an egg-shaped shadow…