As the shadow plummets, the Doctor slips to the ground, his hand still raised, breathlessly humming something in an annoyingly high falsetto about lollipops and guilds…
The Assassin never sees it as it strikes; he is gone in a puff of fine dust, as though someone poured hot water on him.
“It must have been the ring,” River says, bending to pick up the silver band on the pile of Gallifreyan detritus, as it has spilled out from under the fallen Pod in a pool. “Was it keeping him alive, I wonder… the Pod must have interacted with it somehow.”
“We might never know the reasons, child,” says Borusa, stepping up and holding out her hand for the ring. “Who can say, with that boy? But I will ask Pasmodius once he has fully revived. He was stuck in the Tomb for a while, you know.” She smiles, then cocks her head at the Doctor, who, still wearing nothing but his dusty white shirt, has got a second wind from sheer fascination and is staring at the large egg-shaped object sticking from the Panopticon floor- upon which he is currently leaning, for his dignity’s sake.
But then, the Pod opens. A shell-like door raises up. A bit of air puffs out, and soon, a head full of straggles of grey hair, half-stuffed beneath a yellow scarf.
Those eyes… those beautiful grey eyes.
They meet his. His meet hers.
He feels Creation shift beneath him. His body acts drained, without blood.