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"I ... I knew your father. We were, shall we say, on the opposite sides of certain issues. But he was no fool." Suddenly Aria/Visser Three smiled. It was a faraway smile, like she/he was remembering something from long ago. "Prince Elfangor-Sirinial-Shamtul was no fool. And the galaxy will not soon see his like again."
Visser Three waved his hand at DeGroot. "Leave me," he ordered.
"Yes, Visser," DeGroot said reverently.
Visser Three sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. It was a pity, really, that Elfangor's son was such a disappointment. He would have enjoyed infesting the boy with one of his loyal lieutenants. In fact, he might have enjoyed slithering into the boy's mind himself. He had always wanted to take over Elfangor, to control that body and to feel Elfangor's razor sharp brilliance fighting against him every day.
Elfangor was a worthy adversary. In fact, over the ears, he had gained Visser Three's grudging respect. They had been through a lot together. At times, Visser Three could feel the Ellimist still watching him, taunting him. He had no doubt that Elfangor had the same feeling. The Ellimist had played so many games with their lives over the years, engineering situations where Visser Three was stuck with nobody else to talk to except Elfangor. Visser Three was surprised to realise that he rather enjoyed it, even though he wouldn't admit it to anybody else.
Sometimes, Visser Three wished that he had kept Elfangor alive. He missed the verbal spars. He hadn't had an opponent even half as interesting as Elfangor since his death.
Visser Three crumpled the letter. That boy, that trash, was Elfangor's legacy. It was a waste. Elfangor would have been disappointed; Visser Three was disappointed for him. Elfangor deserved better.